Just Be
by CharlotteCumberbatch
Summary: Sherlock needs John's help overriding an unpleasant memory. Not overly explicit, but rated M for possibly triggering themes. [JohnLock but not really.]


**[TW: Implied rape] Sherlock is assaulted and needs John to help him override the memories.**

**xoxox**

"John, I need you to help me override some memories."

Those words alone didn't actually change anything, especially not John's shock and disdain when Sherlock stumbled up to the flat at 3am stained with blood and sweat and clearly high - and it was only after questioning, cursing and half-hidden tears that the older man finally understood what the detectives words actually meant and the specifics behind what he wanted - no,_ needed_ John to do.

"Please."

It didn't stop him ignoring the request though, and pursuing what he assumed were more important matters:

"_Who was it?_"

"_Where the fuck was Mycroft? I thought he was watching you!_"

"_When? Where the hell were you!?_"

"_You need to go to the hospital - the police!_"

John Watson was not gay, nor was he even bisexual save for a few curious kisses and an embarrassing hand-job at a party game of dares back when he was a horny teenager and honestly until he was seen hanging around Sherlock, nobody even questioned his sexuality.

Sherlock fucking Holmes: the tall, skin-and-bones, curly-haired, socially inept, brilliant one and only consulting detective. The perfectly messed up junkie who hid behind the facade of a high functioning sociopath and only seemed to own one outfit in all the time John had known him. John loved Sherlock, hell even Anderson could see that - but what nobody could seem to fathom was that it wasn't Love-Love and honestly the idea of having sex with him was baffling and absolutely not his forte.

"I need... to think about this, Sherlock..." was all he could bring himself to say at that moment, finally collapsing into his chair and rubbing his temples in a vain attempt to ease the aching in his skull. The detective swallowed and turned away before John could see any evidence of anxiety in his eyes. "That is fine John, I understand that you're not gay - however this would not be a -"

"I know, Sherlock."

"Okay..."

Sherlock walked away and John heard the soft _click_ of the bedroom door locking. It was only then that the doctor allowed himself to open his eyes. Gay or straight, he could do this. He had to, because even if he wasn't _In Love_ with Sherlock Holmes, he loved him and that was close enough and he'd be damned to hell if he was going to sit and watch his best friend sink deeper into this hovel of drugs and self-loathing, unable to delete the memories of a horrific attack that John could only imagine the pain of reliving.

His best friend had been...

**xoxox**

... attacked. Hurt. Violated. Assaulted. Every word except_ that one_ tumbled around Sherlocks mind as he collapsed onto his bed with a grimace and a painful yelp only muffled by the lingering taste of semen and shame on his tongue and the pillow he buried his face in when he rolled over. Regardless of how long he'd been in love with his straight best... only friend, he'd never decided to pursue those feelings although whether this was out of fear or respect for John's sexuality he'd never really been sure.

But he'd tried to delete it; the choking fear of knowing what was going to happen, the searing pain shooting up his spine as he was taken for the first time, the smell of blood and the taste of the metallic liquid mingling with bitterness, the rage that bubbled in his chest to push away the desperate humiliation, and above it all just wishing the bastard had killed him instead.

The screaming in his head just would not stop.

_His own screaming, because sarcasm and his straight-faced deductions just didn't cut it, only made everything worse because then he was pinned to the ground with sickly-sweet laughter and Moriarty was practically singing the words, taunting him. "Poor freak, when are you going to be quiet?" the bastard had purred, and all Sherlock could see was defiance and lust in his eyes. Freak. Why did he have to use that word, the word he was going to hear at the Yard for the rest of his life and remember this every fucking time._

He'd tried to delete it, but it was too vivid and Sherlock's only option was to somehow override the experience with a less unpleasant one based on the first. Confuse his mind palace, to convince himself. John Watson was the only person in the world he trusted enough for this task.

The knock on his bedroom door came exactly two hours, fourteen minutes and twenty-eight seconds later.

"I'll do it."

**xoxox**

"I'm not gay."

"I know."

"I'm not gay." John repeated, even as he pushed into Sherlock with a muted gasp and watched as the younger man fisted the sheets beneath him with a blush highlighting sharp cheekbones and unmistakable need in his eyes.

"I know..." Sherlock rasped, even as he relaxed against John with a pained moan and watched as the older man forced himself to stay still with a sheen of sweat across his forehead and undeniable confusion in his eyes.

Every invisible, unspoken boundary had been broken and one day Sherlock would thank Moriarty for tearing him apart so that John could only fill in the pieces, including the ones he'd not even known were missing.

Yet even as the heat rose to boiling point and their movements became more erratic it wasn't about sexuality, and even when they came just seconds apart like a goddamn car crash (John first; with a grunt muffled against Sherlocks shoulder as he emptied himself deep within him, and Sherlock with a cry as he tipped back his head and arched against the older man) John knew that Mary would be the recipient of his Eros affection forever, but the Agape kind of love he had for Sherlock was the one he finally whispered as the lights went out because gay or not, home to John Watson was danger and dark curls.

**xoxox END xoxox**

**Reviews are golden angst and Háagan Dazs.**


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